Louisbourg Part Six

Louisbourg A novella by Thomas Hurtt

Part Six In the privacy of his own office, the dark man read the waylaid letter for a third time and frowned. He was not looking for clarity of meaning; its contents were familiar to him by now. The information contained therein was straightforward, a concise description of Louisbourg’s defensive state. Anyone with an eye for it could have noted the fortress’s deficiencies and Bouchard had spelled them out in plain language. He had also penned an accurate, if not entirely charitable, description of the progress that had been made on the new construction. This is not what troubled the gentleman present. He was looking for something else, something hidden within. A peculiar turn of phrase perhaps, or a purposeful alignment of letters. There was none that he could decipher and he felt a pang of disappointment. Whether this was with himself, or with the letter, was hard to say. He next held the dispatch before a naked candle, looking minutely at the light that shone through it. This was a delicate operation, as the parchment needed to be very close to the open flame. But turn it as he may, and peer at it as he might, he could not discover anything of interest. There was no secret writing. The letter seemed to be no more than it purported to be. And that left him very puzzled, indeed. Could he be wrong about this Lieutenant Bouchard? He didn’t know the answer to that. And this ambiguity was what worried him most of all. *** Mariette Achard recoiled deep into the root cellar and tried to recover from the shock. It wasn’t so easy. The thin veneer of civility had been ripped away with such violence, such vehemence, that her wits had become jangled. She was momentarily at a loss, and retreat seemed the only recourse. And then raw instinct swept over her, impelling her to meet the peril at hand. “Stay where you are,” she warned, in a steely voice that she did not recognize as her own, “or I swear by the Virgin…” She had left the threat open ended. She really had no idea what she was capable of at that moment. Madame Vienneau took a step further into the chamber, lunacy still blazing in her eyes. Mariette groped blindly behind her, singeing her fingers as she sought for the lantern. She found the handle and held the light menacingly, poised to swing it at the cook’s face. “Put that down, you miscreant!” Vienneau snarled. “Madame, I will not,” came an equally determined cry. “You must step back.” They stared at each other across a divide of mere inches. Sweat broke on Mariette’s skin, despite the cool environs of the chamber. She struggled to engage her

brain, to make some sense out of the events of the last hour. She couldn’t do it. This whole day was inverted. “I am no mere servant girl that you can abuse me without consequence to yourself,” she declared. “Back away from me or I shall have you brought before the magistrate on a charge of assault.” Something broke in the cook’s wild gaze, something that let a glimmer of sanity eek through. She visibly unclenched, and though there was still anger in her voice, it no longer contained bloodshed. “Do you realized that you have been gone for over half an hour!” she railed. “I needed to…” Mariette began, but her voice withered in her mouth. Had it been half an hour? Mariette didn’t think so. And yet it had taken some time to get Claudette begun in her tale, and a considerable effort to keep her there too. “…You have abused my trust, absconding off with that dunce of a scullery maid. I can see that I will have to keep the both of you on a much tighter rein…” Mariette was nowhere close to understanding what was happening in the kitchens this day. She only knew that something was out of joint and that Madame Vienneau and Fantine Chaubert were at the source of it. “You, Madame, have taken utter leave of your senses! There is a very reasonable explanation why we were in here, and if you had bothered to ask, you would not have worked yourself into such a violent passion.” This speech seemed to cause Vienneau a moment of reflection. The furious combustion dwindled from her eyes, though the ruddy taint on her cheeks and the scowling twist of her mouth remained. This further declination gave Mariette an opportunity to think, and her quick mind latched onto something that hadn’t been there a moment before. It was plausible enough that she was willing to believe in it herself. And this self-deception was potent; it conveyed the air of veracity to her invention. “I heard a yelp of fright when I was in the privy. It was from Claudette, down here in the cold storage pantry. She had seen a rat, and it startled her. That’s why she cried out.” Madame Vienneau’s brow un-furrow a little at this, and she murmured to herself, “…the feather-brained fool…” It was true that Claudette could be a goose, and that propensity lent certain credence to Mariette’s narrative. “I came as quickly as I was able to.” “And so this rat,” Vienneau challenged, “is it in here now?” “Of course not. What do you think we have been doing down here all this time? We finally cornered it and then disposed of the body.” “So you killed a rat. Bravo,” Vienneau voiced flatly. “That does nothing to explain why I found you whispering together in a closed storeroom.” A cunning glow glinted in her eye. “Do you have an answer for that too?” But Mariette did have an answer for that. “Madame Vienneau,” she asked, in a tone she might reserve for a simpleton, “have you ever know there to be only one rat, once they have found their way into a storeroom? Think about it. Where there is one, there are others. We were looking for more.”

The head cook was lost for the moment, and Mariette decided to conclude the matter before she could recover. “Unless, of course, you think it’s proper they have the run of the pantry…” “But the door!” Vienneau exclaimed, suddenly remember her point. “You had the door shut behind you!” “Try and be sensible. If the door were open, the rats would have escaped. Would you like for them to get into the kitchens upstairs?” That there were rats in the kitchens already was common knowledge, but since it was Madame Vienneau’s responsibility to prevent such from occurring, she again had no answer. “Now, excuse me,” Mariette said wearily, “I have a hearth to tend to. We have both wasted enough time in this…unpleasantness.” She quickly sidestepped her opponent and was out of the room. It was important to get upstairs, right now. She had to whisper a quick word into Claudette’s ear before the cook got to her. Everything depended on making Claudette a party to her story. Otherwise, one single question could unravel everything and make the trouble oh so much worse. It terrified her to think that her fortunes were tied to a flighty, battered young girl. As she double-timed down the passageway, Fantine Chaubert stepped from the shadows, blocking her flight. The devilish glee that she had earlier glimpsed on Fantine’s face was now gone. Her visage was twisted by fury, her voice spitting acid. “You lying witch,” Madame Chaubert snarled, “There was no dead rat. You made it all up!” “Prove me wrong,” Mariette snapped as she pushed her way past. “I tossed it down a privy hole. Go look for it yourself, if you don’t believe me.” She felt more that heard Fantine’s caustic reply. It was drowned out by the pounding of blood in her ears and the realization that this was not yet over… *** The men that gathered in the Commissary’s salon were an impressive group. Between them, they represented the top strata of Louisbourg society. The Governor and his charming wife were not in attendance, of course. Their invitation to such a meeting as this would have been very inappropriate, indeed. Jacque Prevost de la Croix, the Commissary, was present however. He stood with his back to the fire, only half listening as Jean-Baptist Morin de Fonfay’s flattery washed over him. The prominent merchants Nicholas Larcher and Michel Daccarrette were both helping themselves to some excellent Madeira from the side table, while disagreeing over a very minor point of trade. Claude-Audet Coeuret hastened into the salon, looked around at the assembly and exclaimed, “Is this everyone? Am I late?” Prevost glanced at the expensive timepiece on the mantle, frowned slightly, but did not reprove the newcomer. “We won’t be joined by Major-Colonel Duhaget this evening,” he confided. “No loss there,” young Daccarrette quipped. Prevost smiled at this, as did some of the others.

“We are missing only Monsieur Laborde. It is he that asked for this meeting, so I fear that we must wait a little longer.” “Do you know what this is about?” Nicolas Larcher asked impudently. “Why he called us together on such short notice?” “I do know, at least in part,” replied the Commissary. “Though I think it best that you hear it from his own lips.” He turned his attention to the most recent arrival. “Claude, please help yourself to some wine.” He smiled, enjoying the part of the jovial host. “And there are some excellent hors d’oeuvres as well. It would be a sin if they went to waste.” Coeuret gladly filled a plate with nibbles, took some claret and joined the group. “Monsieur Morin,” he asked with feint innocence, “What news of your great project, eh? Has the fair dame succumb to your charms at last?” The keeper of the king’s stores looked off put by the question. “It is only a matter of time, sir. These things cannot be rushed.” “Well, you certainly are taking your leisure. And the lengths that you go to, indeed! Wouldn’t it be simpler for one of our ladies go to her and arrange this matter for you?” “You don’t understand this particular woman. That approach will not work.” Couture shook his head with bemusement. “What I don’t understand is how can any woman be worthy of such scheming? Is she really that exceptional?” Nicolas Larcher, overhearing their conversation, could not help but to interject himself into it. “Blasphemy, sir! Blasphemy! Our dear friend Jean-Baptist here may not have a head for cards…” “…or wine for that matter!” Daccarrette added impishly. “…but he does have an eye for beautiful women,” Larcher concluded. “You have never beheld this Madame Guyon he tracking. I have, and I can assure you that she is most worthy of pursuit. I would go after her myself, except…” “…except I spied her first!” Morin interrupted, with some emotion. “She is mine by right of discovery, and don’t you forget that, sir!” Larcher sighed. “Just don’t take too long, my friend,” he warned. “This is the part I don’t understand,” Coeuret complained. “Your methods are so cumbersome, so elaborate! To orchestrate her husband’s absence…” “I had some help there,” Morin admitted “Not at all,” Prevost responded with exaggerated innocence. “I simply expressed a concern for the security of Port Toulouse, nothing more. It was a military decision to have Guyon sent thus. And everyone knows that it is the governor who handles all matters of a military nature…” “And it is you that handles the governor…” pronounced the man who stood in the entry of the salon. Gone was the dark cloak that concealed his costly raiment. The polished silver cane, however, remained tightly in Jean Laborde’s grasp as he strode confidently into the room. “You must be curious why I have called you here this evening. Claude, be a good fellow and pour me a glass, will you? What? Is Monsieur Duhaget indisposed again?

No matter. For the rest, if I might impose on you further, let us sit down. There is a situation that has come to my attention, and I wish to share with you immediately.” Laborde waited until they had arranged the chairs to their liking and were comfortably seated. He then withdrew two separate letters and passed them to the commissary on his right. Prevost merely glanced at the first, and then passed it on to Daccarrette. He had seen this one before. The second document was new to him and he read the parchment with keen interest. “This report is addressed to the Minister of Marine. How did you get your hands on it?” This was not where Laborde sought their discussion to begin. “You know,” he said dismissively, “that I have my own sources.” Prevost arched an eyebrow significantly, but let it pass. When the second document reached Nicolas Larcher, he examined the text for a long while. He then rose and held the parchment before a wall sconce, peering intently at the light that smudged through its surface. Laborde did nothing to prevent him from this duplication of effort. He was looking for guidance from these men, a clear way forward. It was better if they formed their own opinions, rather then be swayed by his impressions. Larcher apparently found nothing, for he scowled as he returned to his place. “So you believe,” Coeuret began, “that the Lt. Bouchard who wrote this…rather severe report…is the same man that your source at the Ministry office warned us about?” Laborde shrugged. “I want to know what you think…” “I don’t even want to discuss that yet,” Daccarrette interrupted. “I want to know where that Bouchard letter came from. Was it intercepted or did you have it stolen from his room?” “What’s your point?” Laborde asked warily. “My point is this. If it was taken from his room and he is the spy you suspect him to be, then he already knows we are on to him.” “Yes,” Morin’s face lit with comprehension. “And that will make this situation much more difficult to handle.” Laborde did see now, and moved to assuage their fears. “Not to worry. He had already passed it on to a naval officer. It was to be sent with the outbound supply ship. I am quite confident he doesn’t know we have it.” The room became very, very quiet. And in the stillness, Jean Laborde felt an uneasiness creep into his stomach. His grasp on the cane became slick with sweat. It was Nicolas Larcher who first broke the silence. “Mon Dieu! How dim-witted can you be? You’ve been using that vile Morjuet again, haven’t you?” “Even after that incidence with Boularderie?” asked another, incredulously. “Did you learn nothing?” demanded at third. Jean Laborde was speechless at first. He had no intentions on divulging his methods, but face with this kind of backlash… “What makes you think that Arsene Morjuet is involved in any of this?” he demanded defiantly. “Because,” the commissary spoke in a steady, quiet voice, “the fourth lieutenant of the Belle Fleur, a certain Francis Dubois, was pulled from the waters of the harbor this

morning. His neck had been snapped. I think it is pretty clear to everyone in this room that his death was no accident…” Author’s note: Please be aware that the above is a piece of fiction, and does not portray actual historical events. That said, not all of the characters that appear are a product of the Author’s imagination. Some did genuinely live and reside in the fortress town of Louisbourg in 1757. I have used historical research, as much as I was able, to reconstructing their relationships and to some extent, their nature. Fact and fiction have woven together to make this tale more dramatic and, I hope, more entertaining. If you would like to learn more about the fascinating people who inhabit these pages, I recommend you consult the Dictionary of Canadian Biography Online http://www.biographi.ca/index-e.html

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